The Purple Land by W H Hudson

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Title: The Purple Land

Author: W. H. Hudson

Release Date: December, 2004 [EBook #7132]
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THE PURPLE LAND

Being the Narrative of One Richard Lamb's Adventures in
The Banda Oriental, in South America, as Told By Himself

By W. H. Hudson

Illustrated By Keith Henderson

(Illustrations not available in this edition)

Second Edition, 1904

New York

CONTENTS

PREFACE

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER XVII

CHAPTER XVIII

CHAPTER XIX

CHAPTER XX

CHAPTER XXI

CHAPTER XXII

CHAPTER XXIII

CHAPTER XXIV

CHAPTER XXV

CHAPTER XXVI

CHAPTER XXVII

CHAPTER XXVIII

CHAPTER XXIX

APPENDIX

PREFACE

This work was first issued in 1885, by Messrs. Sampson Low, in two slim volumes, with the longer, and to most persons,

enigmatical title of The Purple Land That England Lost. A purple land may be found in almost any region of the globe, and 'tis of our
gains, not our losses, we keep count. A few notices of the book appeared in the papers, one or two of the more serious literary
journals reviewing it (not favourably) under the heading of “Travels and Geography”; but the reading public cared not to buy, and it
very shortly fell into oblivion. There it might have remained for a further period of nineteen years, or for ever, since the sleep of a book
is apt to be of the unawakening kind, had not certain men of letters, who found it on a forgotten heap and liked it in spite of its faults, or
because of them, concerned themselves to revive it.

We are often told that an author never wholly loses his affection for a first book, and the feeling has been likened (more than once)

to that of a parent towards a first-born. I have not said it, but in consenting to this reprint I considered that a writer's early or

unregarded work is apt to be raked up when he is not standing by to make remarks. He may be absent on a journey from which he is
not expected to return. It accordingly seemed better that I should myself supervise a new edition, since this would enable me to
remove a few of the numerous spots and pimples which decorate the ingenious countenance of the work before handing it on to
posterity.

Besides many small verbal corrections and changes, the deletion of some paragraphs and the insertion of a few new ones, I have

omitted one entire chapter containing the Story of a Piebald Horse, recently reprinted in another book entitled El Ombù. I have also
dropped the tedious introduction to the former edition, only preserving, as an appendix, the historical part, for the sake of such of my
readers as may like to have a few facts about the land that England lost.

W. H. H.
September, 1904.

CHAPTER I

Three chapters in the story of my life—three periods, distinct and well defined, yet consecutive—beginning when I had not

completed twenty-five years and finishing before thirty, will probably prove the most eventful of all. To the very end they will come
back oftenest to memory and seem more vivid than all the other years of existence—the four-and-twenty I had already lived, and the,
say, forty or forty-five—I hope it may be fifty or even sixty—which are to follow. For what soul in this wonderful, various world would
wish to depart before ninety! The dark as well as the light, its sweet and its bitter, make me love it.

Of the first of these three a word only need be written. This was the period of courtship and matrimony; and though the experience

seemed to me then something altogether new and strange in the world, it must nevertheless have resembled that of other men, since all
men marry. And the last period, which was the longest of the three, occupying fully three years, could not be told. It was all black
disaster. Three years of enforced separation and the extremest suffering which the cruel law of the land allowed an enraged father to
inflict on his child and the man who had ventured to wed her against his will. Even the wise may be driven mad by oppression, and I
that was never wise, but lived in and was led by the passions and illusions and the unbounded self-confidence of youth, what must it
have been for me when we were cruelly torn asunder; when I was cast into prison to lie for long months in the company of felons, ever
thinking of her who was also desolate and breaking her heart! But it is ended—the abhorrent restraint, the anxiety, the breedings over
a thousand possible and impossible schemes of revenge. If it is any consolation to know that in breaking her heart he, at the same time,
broke his own, and made haste to join her in that silent place, I have it. Ah no! it is no comfort to me, since I cannot but reflect that
before he shattered my life I had shattered his by taking her from him, who was his idol. We are quits then, and I can even say, “Peace
to his ashes!” But I could not say it then in my frenzy and grief, nor could it be said in that fatal country which I had inhabited from
boyhood and had learned to love like my own, and had hoped never to leave. It was grown hateful to me, and, flying from it, I found
myself once more in that Purple Land where we had formerly taken refuge together, and which now seemed to my distracted mind a
place of pleasant and peaceful memories.

During the months of quietude after the storm, mostly spent in lonely rambles by the shore, these memories were more and more

with me. Sometimes sitting on the summit of that great solitary hill, which gives the town its name, I would gaze by the hour on the wide
prospect towards the interior, as if I could see, and never weary of seeing, all that lay beyond—plains and rivers and woods and hills,
and cabins where I had rested, and many a kindly human face. Even the faces of those who had ill-treated or regarded me with evil
eyes now appeared to have a friendly look. Most of all did I think of that dear river, the unforgettable Yí, the shaded white house at
the end of the little town, and the sad and beautiful image of one whom I, alas! had made unhappy.

So much was I occupied towards the end of that vacant period with these recollections that I remembered how, before quitting

these shores, the thought had come to me that during some quiet interval in my life I would go over it all again, and write the history of
my rambles for others to read in the future. But I did not attempt it then, nor until long years afterwards. For I had no sooner begun to
play with the idea than something came to rouse me from the state I was in, during which I had been like one that has outlived his
activities, and is no longer capable of a new emotion, but feeds wholly on the past. And this something new, affecting me so that I was
all at once myself again, eager to be up and doing, was nothing more than a casual word from a distance, the cry of a lonely heart,
which came by chance to my ear; and, hearing it, I was like one who, opening his eyes from a troubled doze, unexpectedly sees the
morning star in its unearthly lustre above the wide, dark plain where night overtook him—the star of day and everlasting hope, and of
passion and strife and toil and rest and happiness.

I need not linger on the events which took us to the Banda—our nocturnal flight from Paquíta's summer home on the pampas; the

hiding and clandestine marriage in the capital and subsequent escape northwards into the province of Santa Fé; the seven to eight
months of somewhat troubled happiness we had there; and, finally, the secret return to Buenos Ayres in search of a ship to take us out
of the country. Troubled happiness! Ah, yes, and my greatest trouble was when I looked on her, my partner for life, when she seemed
loveliest, so small, so exquisite in her dark blue eyes that were like violets, and silky black hair and tender pink and olive complexion—
so frail in appearance! And I had taken her—stolen her—from her natural protectors, from the home where she had been worshipped
—I of an alien race and another religion, without means, and, because I had stolen her, an offender against the law. But of this no
more. I begin my itinerary where, safe on our little ship, with the towers of Buenos Ayres fast fading away in the west, we began to feel
free from apprehension and to give ourselves up to the contemplation of the delights before us. Winds and waves presently interfered

with our raptures, Paquíta proving a very indifferent sailor, so that for some hours we had a very trying time of it. Next day a
favourable north-west breeze sprang up to send us flying like a bird over those unlovely red billows, and in the evening we
disembarked in Montevideo, the city of refuge. We proceeded to an hotel, where for several days we lived very happily, enchanted
with each other's society; and when we strolled along the beach to watch the setting sun, kindling with mystic fire heaven, water, and
the great hill that gives the city its name, and remembered that we were looking towards the shores of Buenos Ayres, it was pleasant to
reflect that the widest river in the world rolled between us and those who probably felt offended at what we had done.

This charming state of things came to an end at length in a somewhat curious manner. One night, before we had been a month in the

hotel, I was lying wide awake in bed. It was late; I had already heard the mournful, long-drawn voice of the watchman under my
window calling out, “Half-past one and cloudy.”

Gil Blas relates in his biography that one night while lying awake he fell into practising a little introspection, an unusual thing for him to

do, and the conclusion he came to was that he was not a very good young man. I was having a somewhat similar experience that night
when in the midst of my unflattering thoughts about myself, a profound sigh from Paquíta made me aware that she too was lying wide
awake and also, in all probability, chewing the cud of reflection. When I questioned her concerning that sigh, she endeavoured in vain
to conceal from me that she was beginning to feel unhappy. What a rude shock the discovery gave me! And we so lately married! It is
only just to Paquíta, however, to say that had I not married her she would have been still more unhappy. Only the poor child could not
help thinking of father and mother; she yearned for reconciliation, and her present sorrow rose from her belief that they would never,
never, never forgive her. I endeavoured, with all the eloquence I was capable of, to dispel these gloomy ideas, but she was firm in her
conviction that precisely because they had loved her so much they would never pardon this first great offence. My poor darling might
have been reading Christabel, I thought, when she said that it is toward those who have been most deeply loved the wounded heart
cherishes the greatest bitterness. Then, by way of illustration, she told me of a quarrel between her mother and a till then dearly loved
sister. It had happened many years ago, when she, Paquíta, was a mere child; yet the sisters had never forgiven each other.

“And where,” I asked, “is this aunt of yours, of whom I have never heard you speak until this minute?”
“Oh,” answered Paquíta, with the greatest simplicity imaginable, “she left this country long, long ago, and you never heard of her

because we were not even allowed to mention her name in the house. She went to live in Montevideo, and I believe she is there still,
for several years ago I heard some person say that she had bought herself a house in that city.”

“Soul of my life,” said I, “you have never left Buenos Ayres in heart, even to keep your poor husband company! Yet I know,

Paquíta, that corporeally you are here in Montevideo, conversing with me at this very moment.”

“True,” said Paquíta; “I had somehow forgotten that we were in Montevideo. My thoughts were wandering—perhaps it is

sleepiness.”

“I swear to you, Paquíta,” I replied, “that you shall see this aunt of yours to-morrow before set of sun; and I am positive, sweetest,

that she will be delighted to receive so near and lovely a relation. How glad she will be of an opportunity of relating that ancient quarrel
with her sister and ventilating her mouldy grievances! I know these old dames—they are all alike.”

Paquíta did not like the idea at first, but when I assured her that we were getting to the end of our money, and that her aunt might be

able to put me in the way of obtaining employment, she consented, like the dutiful little wife she was.

Next day I discovered her relation without very much trouble, Montevideo not being a large city. We found Doña Isidora—for that

was the lady's name—living in a somewhat mean-looking house at the eastern extremity of the town, farthest away from the water.
There was an air of poverty about the place, for the good dame, though well provided with means to live comfortably, made a pet of
her gold. Nevertheless, she received us very kindly when we introduced ourselves and related our mournful and romantic story; a
room was prepared for our immediate reception, and she even made me some vague promises of assistance. On a more intimate
acquaintance with our hostess we found that I had not been very far out in guessing her character. For several days she could talk of
nothing except her immemorial quarrel with her sister and her sister's husband, and we were bound to listen attentively and to
sympathise with her, for that was the only return we could make for her hospitality. Paquíta had more than her share of it, but was
made no wiser as to the cause of this feud of long standing; for, though Doña Isidora had evidently been nursing her wrath all those
years to keep it warm, she could not, for the life of her, remember how the quarrel originated.

After breakfast each morning I would kiss her and hand her over to the tender mercies of her Isidora, then go forth on my fruitless

perambulations about the town. At first I only acted the intelligent foreigner, going about staring at the public buildings, and collecting
curios—strangely marked pebbles, and a few military brass buttons, long shed by the garments they once made brave; rusty,
misshapen bullets, mementoes of the immortal nine or ten years' siege which had won for Montevideo the mournful appellation of
modern Troy. When I had fully examined from the outside the scene of my future triumphs—for I had now resolved to settle down and
make my fortune in Montevideo—Ibegan seriously to look out for employment. I visited in turn every large mercantile establishment in
the place, and, in fact, every house where I thought there might be a chance of lighting on something to do. It was necessary to make a
beginning, and I would not have turned up my nose at anything, however small, I was so heartily sick of being poor, idle, and
dependent. Nothing could I find. In one house I was told that the city had not yet recovered from the effects of the late revolution, and
that business was, in consequence, in a complete state of paralysis; in another that the city was on the eve of a revolution, and that
business was, in consequence, in a complete state of paralysis. And everywhere it was the same story—the political state of the
country made it impossible for me to win an honest dollar.

Feeling very much dispirited, and with the soles nearly worn off my boots, I sat down on a bench beside the sea, or river—for some

call it one thing, some the other, and the muddied hue and freshness of the water, and the uncertain words of geographers, leave one in
doubt as to whether Montevideo is situated on the shores of the Atlantic, or only near the Atlantic and on the shores of a river one
hundred and fifty miles wide at its mouth. I did not trouble my head about it; I had other things that concerned me more nearly to think
of. I had a quarrel with this Oriental nation, and that was more to me than the greenness or the saltness of the vast estuary that washes
the dirty feet of its queen—for this modern Troy, this city of battle, murder, and sudden death, also calls itself Queen of the Plata. That
it was a very just quarrel on my part I felt well assured. Now, to be even with every human being who despitefully uses me has ever

been a principle of action with me. Nor let it be said that it is an unchristian principle; for when I have been smitten on the right or left
cheek (the pain is just the same in either case), before I am prepared to deliver the return blow so long a time has often elapsed that all
wrathful or revengeful thoughts are over. I strike in such a case more for the public good than for my own satisfaction, and am
therefore right in calling my motive a principle of action, not an impulse. It is a very valuable one too, infinitely more effective than the
fantastical code of the duellist, which favours the person who inflicts the injury, affording him facilities for murdering or maiming the
person injured. It is a weapon invented for us by Nature before Colonel Colt ever lived, and it has this advantage, that one is permitted
to wear it in the most law-abiding communities as well as amongst miners and backwoodsmen. If inoffensive people were ever to cast
it aside, then wicked men would have everything their own way and make life intolerable. Fortunately the evil-doers always have the
fear of this intangible six-shooter before them; a wholesome feeling, which restrains them more than reasonableness or the law courts,
and to which we owe it that the meek are permitted to inherit the earth. But now this quarrel was with a whole nation, though certainly
not with a very great one, since the population of the Banda Orientál numbers only about a quarter of a million. Yet in this sparsely
settled country, with its bountiful soil and genial climate, there was apparently no place for me, a muscular and fairly intelligent young
man, who only asked to be allowed to work to live! But how was I to make them smart for this injustice? I could not take the scorpion
they gave me when I asked them for an egg, and make it sting every individual composing the nation. I was powerless, utterly
powerless, to punish them, and therefore the only thing that remained for me to do was to curse them.

Looking around me, my eyes rested on the famous hill across the bay, and I all at once resolved to go up to its summit, and, looking

down on the Banda Orientál, pronounce my imprecation in the most solemn and impressive manner.

The expedition to the cerro, as it is called, proved agreeable enough. Notwithstanding the excessive heats we were just then having,

many wild flowers were blooming on its slopes, which made it a perfect garden. When I reached the old ruined fort which crowns the
summit, I got upon a wall and rested for half an hour, fanned by a fresh breeze from the river and greatly enjoying the prospect before
me. I had not left out of sight the serious object of my visit to that commanding spot, and only wished that the malediction I was about
to utter could be rolled down in the shape of a stupendous rock, loosed from its hold, which would go bounding down the mountain,
and, leaping clear over the bay, crash through the iniquitous city beyond, filling it with ruin and amazement.

“Whichever way I turn,” I said, “I see before me one of the fairest habitations God has made for man: great plains smiling with

everlasting spring; ancient woods; swift, beautiful rivers; ranges of blue hills stretching away to the dim horizon. And beyond those fair
slopes, how many leagues of pleasant wilderness are sleeping in the sunshine, where the wild flowers waste their sweetness and no
plough turns the fruitful soil, where deer and ostrich roam fearless of the hunter, while over all bends a blue sky without a cloud to stain
its exquisite beauty? And the people dwelling in yon city—the key to a continent—they are the possessors of it all. It is theirs, since the
world, out of which the old spirit is fast dying, has suffered them to keep it. What have they done with this their heritage? What are
they doing even now? They are sitting dejected in their houses, or standing in their doorways with folded arms and anxious, expectant
faces. For a change is coming: they are on the eve of a tempest. Not an atmospheric change; no blighting simoom will sweep over their
fields, nor will any volcanic eruption darken their crystal heavens. The earthquakes that shake the Andean cities to their foundations
they have never known and can never know. The expected change and tempest is a political one. The plot is ripe, the daggers
sharpened, the contingent of assassins hired, the throne of human skulls, styled in their ghastly facetiousness a Presidential Chair, is
about to be assaulted. It is long, weeks or even months, perhaps, since the last wave, crested with bloody froth, rolled its desolating
flood over the country; it is high time, therefore, for all men to prepare themselves for the shock of the succeeding wave. And we
consider it right to root up thorns and thistles, to drain malarious marshes, to extirpate rats and vipers; but it would be immoral, I
suppose, to stamp out these people because their vicious natures are disguised in human shape; this people that in crimes have
surpassed all others, ancient or modern, until because of them the name of a whole continent has grown to be a byword of scorn and
reproach throughout the earth, and to stink in the nostrils of all men!

“I swear that I, too, will become a conspirator if I remain long on this soil. Oh, for a thousand young men of Devon and Somerset

here with me, every one of them with a brain on fire with thoughts like mine! What a glorious deed would be done for humanity! What
a mighty cheer we would raise for the glory of the old England that is passing away! Blood would flow in yon streets as it never flowed
before, or, I should say, as it only flowed in them once, and that was when they were swept clean by British bayonets. And afterwards
there would be peace, and the grass would be greener and the flowers brighter for that crimson shower.

“Is it not then bitter as wormwood and gall to think that over these domes and towers beneath my feet, no longer than half a century

ago, fluttered the holy cross of St. George! For never was there a holier crusade undertaken, never a nobler conquest planned, than
that which had for its object the wresting this fair country from unworthy hands, to make it for all time part of the mighty English
kingdom. What would it have been now—this bright, winterless land, and this city commanding the entrance to the greatest river in the
world? And to think that it was won for England, not treacherously, or bought with gold, but in the old Saxon fashion with hard blows,
and climbing over heaps of slain defenders; and after it was thus won, to think that it was lost—will it be believed?—not fighting, but
yielded up without a stroke by craven wretches unworthy of the name of Britons! Here, sitting alone on this mountain, my face burns
like fire when I think of it—this glorious opportunity lost for ever! 'We offer you your laws, your religion, and property under the
protection of the British Government,' loftily proclaimed the invaders—Generals Beresford, Achmuty, Whitelocke, and their
companions; and presently, after suffering one reverse, they (or one of them) lost heart and exchanged the country they had drenched
in blood, and had conquered, for a couple of thousand British soldiers made prisoners in Buenos Ayres across the water; then, getting
into their ships once more, they sailed away from the Plata for ever! This transaction, which must have made the bones of our Viking
ancestors rattle with indignation in their graves, was forgotten later on when we seized the rich Falklands. A splendid conquest and a
glorious compensation for our loss! When yon queen city was in our grasp, and the regeneration, possibly even the ultimate
possession, of this green world before us, our hearts failed us and the prize dropped from our trembling hands. We left the sunny
mainland to capture the desolate haunt of seals and penguins; and now let all those who in this quarter of the globe aspire to live under
that 'British Protection' of which Achmuty preached so loudly at the gates of yon capital, transport themselves to those lonely antarctic
islands to listen to the thunder of the waves on the grey shores and shiver in the bleak winds that blow from the frozen south!”

After delivering this comminatory address I felt greatly relieved, and went home in a cheerful frame of mind to supper, which

consisted that evening of mutton scrag, boiled with pumpkin, sweet potatoes, and milky maize—not at all a bad dish for a hungry man.

CHAPTER II

Several days passed, and my second pair of boots had been twice resoled before Doña Isidora's schemes for advancing my

fortunes began to take form. Perhaps she was beginning to think us a burden on her somewhat niggardly establishment; anyway,
hearing that my preference was for a country life, she gave me a letter containing half a dozen lines of commendation addressed to the
Mayordomo of a distant cattle-breeding establishment, asking him to serve the writer by giving her nephew—as she called me—
employment of some kind on the estancia. Probably she knew that this letter would really lead to nothing, and gave it merely to get me
away into the interior of the country, so as to keep Paquíta for an indefinite time to herself, for she had become extremely attached to
her beautiful niece. The estancia was on the borders of the Paysandù department, and not less than two hundred miles from
Montevideo. It was a long journey, and I was advised not to attempt it without a tropilla, or troop of horses. But when a native tells
you that you cannot travel two hundred miles without a dozen horses, he only means that you cannot do the distance in two days; for it
is hard for him to believe that one may be satisfied with less than one hundred miles a day. I travelled on one horse, and it therefore
took me several days to accomplish my journey. Before I reached my destination, called Estancia de la Virgin de los Desamparados, I
met with some adventures worth relating, and began to feel as much at home with the Orientáles as I had long been with the
Argentinos.

Fortunately, after I left the town, a west wind continued blowing all day, bringing with it many light, flying clouds to mitigate the sun,

so that I was able to cover a good number of leagues before the evening. I took the road northwards through Camelones department,
and was well on into the Florida department when I put up for the night at the solitary mud rancho of an old herdsman, who lived with
his wife and children in a very primitive fashion. When I rode up to the house, several huge dogs rushed out to attack me: one seized
my horse by the tail, dragging the poor beast about this way and that, so that he staggered and could scarcely keep his legs; another
caught the bridle-reins in his mouth; while a third fixed his fangs in the heel of my boot. After eyeing me for some moments, the grizzled
old herdsman, who wore a knife a yard long at his waist, advanced to the rescue. He shouted at the dogs, and finding that they would
not obey, sprang forward and with a few dexterous blows, dealt with his heavy whip-handle, sent them away howling with rage and
pain. Then he welcomed me with great courtesy, and very soon, when my horse had been unsaddled and turned loose to feed, we
were sitting together enjoying the cool evening air and imbibing the bitter and refreshing maté his wife served to us. While we
conversed I noticed numberless fireflies flitting about; I had never seen them so numerous before, and they made a very lovely show.
Presently one of the children, a bright little fellow of seven or eight, came running to us with one of the sparkling insects in his hand, and
cried:

“Look, tatita, I have caught a linterna. See how bright it is!”
“The Saints forgive you, my child,” said the father. “Go, little son, and put it back on the grass, for if you should hurt it, the spirits

would be angry with you, for they go about by night, and love the linterna that keeps them company.”

What a pretty superstition, I thought; and what a mild, merciful heart this old Oriental herdsman must possess to show so much

tenderness towards one of God's tiny creatures. I congratulated myself on my good fortune in having fallen in with such a person in this
lonely place.

The dogs, after their rude behaviour to me and the sharp punishment they had suffered in consequence, had returned, and were now

gathered around us, lying on the ground. Here I noticed, not for the first time, that the dogs belonging to these lonely places are not
nearly so fond of being noticed and caressed as are those of more populous and civilised districts. On attempting to stroke one of
these surly brutes on the head, he displayed his teeth and growled savagely at me. Yet this animal, though so truculent in temper, and
asking for no kindness from his master, is just as faithful to man as his better-mannered brother in the more settled country. I spoke on
that subject to my gentle herdsman.

“What you say is true,” he replied. “I remember once during the siege of Montevideo, when I was with a small detachment sent to

watch the movements of General Rivera's army, we one day overtook a man on a tired horse. Our officer, suspecting him to be a spy,
ordered him to be killed, and, after cutting his throat, we left his body lying on the open ground at a distance of about two hundred and
fifty yards from a small stream of water. A dog was with him, and when we rode off we called it to follow us, but it would not stir from
its dead master's side.

“Three days later we returned to the same spot, to find the corpse lying just where we had left it. The foxes and birds had not

touched it, for the dog was still there to defend it. Many vultures were near, waiting for a chance to begin their feast. We alighted to
refresh ourselves at the stream, then stood there for half an hour watching the dog. He seemed to be half-famished with thirst, and
came towards the stream to drink; but before he got half-way to it the vultures, by twos and threes, began to advance, when back he
flew and chased them away, barking. After resting a few minutes beside the corpse, he came again towards the stream, till, seeing the
hungry birds advance once more, he again flew back at them, barking furiously and foaming at the mouth. This we saw repeated many
times, and at last, when we left, we tried once more to entice the dog to follow us, but he would not. Two days after that we had
occasion to pass by that spot again, and there we saw the dog lying dead beside his dead master.”

“Good God,” I exclaimed, “how horrible must have been the feelings you and your companions experienced at such a sight!”
“No, señor, not at all,” replied the old man. “Why, señor, I myself put the knife into that man's throat. For if a man did not grow

accustomed to shed blood in this world, his life would be a burden to him.”

What an inhuman old murderer! I thought. Then I asked him whether he had ever in his life felt remorse for shedding blood.
“Yes,” he answered; “when I was a very young man, and had never before dipped weapon in human blood; that was when the

siege began. I was sent with half a dozen men in pursuit of a clever spy, who had passed the lines with letters from the besieged. We
came to a house where, our officer had been informed, he had been lying concealed. The master of the house was a young man about
twenty-two years old. He would confess nothing. Finding him so stubborn, our officer became enraged, and bade him step out, and
then ordered us to lance him. We galloped forty yards off, then wheeled back. He stood silent, his arms folded on his breast, a smile
on his lips. Without a cry, without a groan, with that smile still on his lips, he fell pierced through with our lances. For days afterwards
his face was ever present to me. I could not eat, for my food choked me. When I raised a jug of water to my lips I could, señor,
distinctly see his eyes looking at me from the water. When I lay down to sleep, his face was again before me, always with that smile
that seemed to mock me on the lips. I could not understand it. They told me it was remorse, and that it would soon leave me, for there
is no ill that time will not cure. They spoke truth, and when that feeling left me I was able to do all things.”

The old man's story so sickened me that I had little appetite for supper, and passed a bad night thinking, waking or sleeping, of that

young man in this obscure corner of the world who folded his arms and smiled on his slayers when they were slaying him. Very early
next morning I bade my host good-bye, thanking him for his hospitality, and devoutly hoping that I should never look upon his
abhorred face again.

I made little progress that day, the weather proving hot, and my horse lazier than ever. After riding about five leagues, I rested for a

couple of hours, then proceeded again at a gentle trot till about the middle of the afternoon, when I dismounted at a wayside pulpería
or store and public-house all in one, where several natives were sipping rum and conversing. Standing before them was a brisk-looking
old man—old, I say, because he had a dark, dry skin, though his hair and moustache were black as jet—who paused in the discourse
he appeared to be delivering, to salute me; then, after bestowing a searching glance on me out of his dark, hawk-like eyes, he resumed
his talk. After calling for rum and water, to be in the fashion, I sat down on a bench, and, lighting a cigarette, prepared to listen. He
was dressed in shabby gaucho habiliments—cotton shirt, short jacket, wide cotton drawers, and chiripa, a shawl-like garment
fastened at the waist with a sash, and reaching down half-way between the knees and ankles. In place of a hat he wore a cotton
handkerchief tied carelessly about his head; his left foot was bare, while the right one was cased in a colt's-skin stocking, called bota-
de-potro, and on this distinguished foot was buckled a huge iron spur, with spikes two inches long. One spur of the kind would be
quite sufficient, I should imagine, to get out of a horse all the energy of which he was capable. When I entered he was holding forth on
the pretty well-worn theme of fate versus free will; his arguments were not, however, the usual dry philosophical ones, but took the
form of illustration, chiefly personal reminiscences and strange incidents in the lives of people he had known, while so vivid and minute
were his descriptions—sparkling with passion, satire, humour, pathos, and so dramatic his action, while wonderful story followed story
—that I was fairly astonished, and pronounced this old pulpería orator a born genius.

His argument over, he fixed his keen eyes on me and said:
“My friend, I perceive you are a traveller from Montevideo: may I ask what news there is from that city?”
“What news do you expect to hear?” said I; then it came into my thought that it was scarcely proper to confine myself to more

commonplace phrases in replying to this curious old Oriental bird, with such ragged plumage, but whose native woodnotes wild had
such a charm in them. “It is only the old story over again!” I continued. “They say there will be a revolution some day. Some of the
people have already retired into their houses, after chalking in very big letters on their front doors, 'Please come into this house and cut
the owner's throat for him, so that he may rest at peace, and have no fear of what may happen.' Others have climbed on to their roofs,
and occupy themselves there looking at the moon through spy-glasses, thinking that the conspirators are concealed in that luminary,
and only waiting for a cloud to obscure it, in order to descend upon the city unobserved.”

“Hear!” cried the old man, rapping delighted applause on the counter with his empty glass.
“What do you drink, friend?” I asked, thinking his keen appreciation of my grotesque speech deserved a treat, and wishing to draw

him out a little more.

“Rum, friend, thank you. They say it warms you in winter, and cools you in summer—what can you have better?”
“Tell me,” said I, when his glass had been refilled by the storekeeper, “what I shall say when I return to Montevideo, and am asked

what news there is in the country?”

The old fellow's eyes twinkled, while the other men ceased talking, and looked at him as if anticipating something good in reply to

my question.

“Say to them,” he answered, “that you met an old man—a horse tamer named Lucero—and that he told you this fable for you to

repeat to the townspeople: Once there was a great tree named Montevideo growing in this country, and in its branches lived a colony
of monkeys. One day one of the monkeys came down from the tree and ran full of excitement across the plain, now scrambling along
like a man on all fours, then erect like a dog running on its hind legs, while its tail, with nothing to catch hold of, wriggled about like a
snake when its head is under foot. He came to a place where a number of oxen were grazing, and some horses, ostriches, deer, goats,
and pigs. 'Friends all,' cried the monkey, grinning like a skull, and with staring eyes round as dollars, 'great news! great news! I come
to tell you that there will shortly be a revolution.' 'Where?' said an ox. 'In the tree—where else?' said the monkey. 'That does not
concern us,' said the ox. 'Oh, yes, it does!' cried the monkey, 'for it will presently spread about the country and you will all have your
throats cut.' Then the ox replied, 'Go back, monkey, and do not molest us with your news, lest we get angry and go to besiege you in
your tree, as we have often had to do since the creation of the world; and then, if you and the other monkeys come down to us, we
will toss you on our horns.'”

This apologue sounded very well, so admirably did the old man picture to us with voice and gesture the chattering excitement of the

monkey and the majestic aplomb of the ox.

“Señor,” he continued, after the laugh had subsided, “I do not wish any of my friends and neighbours here present to fly to the

conclusion that I have spoken anything offensive. Had I seen in you a Montevidean I should not have spoken of monkeys. But, señor,
though you speak as we do, there is yet in the pepper and salt on your tongue a certain foreign flavour.”

“You are right,” I said; “I am a foreigner.”
“A foreigner in some things, friend, for you were doubtless born under other skies; but in that chief quality, which we think was given

by the Creator to us and not to the people of other lands—the ability to be one in heart with the men you meet, whether they are
clothed in velvet or in sheep-skins—in that you are one of us, a pure Oriental.”

I smiled at his subtle flattery; possibly it was only meant in payment of the rum I had treated him to, but it pleased me none the less,

and to his other mental traits I was now inclined to add a marvellous skill in reading character.

After a while he invited me to spend the night under his roof. “Your horse is fat and lazy,” he said with truth, “and, unless you are a

relation of the owl family, you cannot go much farther before to-morrow. My house is a humble one, but the mutton is juicy, the fire
warm, and the water cool there, the same as in another place.”

I readily accepted his invitation, wishing to see as much as I could of so original a character, and before starting I purchased a bottle

of rum, which made his eyes sparkle so that I thought his name—Lucero—rather an appropriate one. His rancho was about two miles
from the store, and our ride thither was about as strange a gallop as I ever took. Lucero was a domador, or horse-tamer, and the
beast he rode was quite unbroken and vicious as it could be. Between horse and man a fierce struggle for mastery raged the whole
time, the horse rearing, plunging, buck-jumping, and putting into practice every conceivable trick to rid itself of its burden; while Lucero
plied whip and spur with tremendous energy and poured out torrents of strange adjectives. At one moment he would come into violent
collision with my old sober beast, at another there would be fifty yards of ground between us; still Lucero would not stop talking, for
he had begun a very interesting story at starting, and he stuck to his narrative through everything, resuming the thread after each
tempest of execration vented on his horse, and raising his voice almost to a shout when we were far apart. The old fellow's staying
powers were really extraordinary, and when we arrived at the house he jumped airily to the ground, and seemed fresh and calm as
possible.

In the kitchen were several people sipping maté, Lucero's children and grandchildren, also his wife, a grey old dame with dim-

looking eyes. But then my host was old in years himself, only, like Ulysses, he still possessed the unquenched fire and energy of youth
in his soul, while time bestowed infirmities together with wrinkles and white hairs on his helpmate.

He introduced me to her in a manner that brought the modest flame to my cheeks. Standing before her, he said that he had met me

at the pulpería and had put to me the question which a simple old countryman must ask of every traveller from Montevideo—What
the news was? Then, assuming a dry, satirical tone, which years of practice would not enable me to imitate, he proceeded to give my
fantastical answer, garnished with much original matter of his own.

“Señora,” I said, when he had finished, “you must not give me credit for all you have heard from your husband. I only gave him

brute wool, and he has woven it for your delight into beautiful cloth.”

“Hear him! Did I tell you what to expect, Juana?” cried the old man, which made me blush still more.
We then settled down to maté and quiet conversation. Sitting in the kitchen on the skull of a horse—a common article of furniture in

an Oriental rancho—was a boy about twelve years old, one of Lucero's grandchildren, with a very beautiful face. His feet were bare
and his clothes very poor, but his soft dark eyes and olive face had that tender, half-melancholy expression often seen in children of
Spanish origin, which is always so strangely captivating.

“Where is your guitar, Cipriano?” said his grandfather, addressing him, whereupon the boy rose and fetched a guitar, which he first

politely offered to me.

When I had declined it, he seated himself once more on his polished horse-skull and began to play and sing. He had a sweet boy's

voice, and one of his ballads took my fancy so much that I made him repeat the words to me while I wrote them down in my
notebook, which greatly gratified Lucero, who seemed proud of the boy's accomplishment. Here are the words translated almost
literally, therefore without rhymes, and I only regret that I cannot furnish my musical readers with the quaint, plaintive air they were sung
to:

O let me go—O let me go,
Where high are born amidst the hills
The streams that gladden all the south,
And o'er the grassy desert wide,
Where slakes his thirst the antlered deer,
Hurry towards the great green ocean.

The stony hills—the stony hills,
With azure air-flowers on their crags,
Where cattle stray unowned by man;
The monarch of the herd there seems
No bigger than my hand in size,
Roaming along the tall, steep summit.

I know them well—I know them well,
Those hills of God, and they know me;
When I go there they are serene,
But when the stranger visits them
Dark rain-clouds gather round their tops—
Over the earth goes forth the tempest.

Then tell me not—then tell me not
'Tis sorrowful to dwell alone;
My heart within the city pent

Pines for the desert's liberty;
The streets are red with blood, and fear
Makes pale and mournful women's faces.

O bear me far—O bear me far,
On swift, sure feet, my trusty steed:
I do not love the burial-ground,
But I shall sleep upon the plain,
Where long green grass shall round me wave—
Over me graze wild herds of cattle.

CHAPTER III

Leaving the eloquent old horse-tamer's rancho early next morning, I continued my ride, jogging quietly along all day and, leaving the

Florida department behind me, entered upon that of the Durazno. Here I broke my journey at an estancia where I had an excellent
opportunity of studying the manners and customs of the Orientals, and where I also underwent experiences of a mixed character and
greatly increased my knowledge of the insect world. This house, at which I arrived an hour before sunset to ask for shelter
(“permission to unsaddle” is the expression the traveller uses), was a long, low structure, thatched with rushes, but the low, enormously
thick walls were built of stone from the neighbouring sierras, in pieces of all shapes and sizes, and presenting, outwardly, the rough
appearance of a stone fence. How these rudely piled-up stones, without cement to hold them together, had not fallen down was a
mystery to me; and it was more difficult still to imagine why the rough interior, with its innumerable dusty holes and interstices, had
never been plastered.

I was kindly received by a very numerous family, consisting of the owner, his hoary-headed old mother-in-law, his wife, three sons,

and five daughters, all grown up. There were also several small children, belonging, I believe, to the daughters, notwithstanding the fact
that they were unmarried. I was greatly amazed at hearing the name of one of these youngsters. Such Christian names as Trinity, Heart
of Jesus, Nativity, John of God, Conception, Ascension, Incarnation, are common enough, but these had scarcely prepared me to
meet with a fellow-creature named—well, Circumcision! Besides the people, there were dogs, cats, turkeys, ducks, geese, and fowls
without number. Not content with all these domestic birds and beasts, they also kept a horrid, shrieking paroquet, which the old
woman was incessantly talking to, explaining to the others all the time, in little asides, what the bird said or wished to say, or, rather,
what she imagined it wished to say. There were also several tame young ostriches, always hanging about the big kitchen or living-room
on the look-out for a brass thimble, or iron spoon, or other little metallic bonne bouche to be gobbled up when no one was looking. A
pet armadillo kept trotting in and out, in and out, the whole evening, and a lame gull was always standing on the threshold in
everybody's way, perpetually wailing for something to eat—the most persistent beggar I ever met in my life.

The people were very jovial, and rather industrious for so indolent a country. The land was their own, the men tended the cattle, of

which they appeared to have a large number, while the women made cheeses, rising before daylight to milk the cows.

During the evening two or three young men—neighbours, I imagine, who were paying their addresses to the young ladies of the

establishment—dropped in; and after a plentiful supper, we had singing and dancing to the music of the guitar, on which every member
of the family—excepting the babies—could strum a little.

About eleven o'clock I retired to rest, and, stretching myself on my rude bed of rugs, in a room adjoining the kitchen, I blessed these

simple-minded, hospitable people. Good heavens, thought I to myself, what a glorious field is waiting here for some new Theocritus!
How unutterably worn out, stilted, and artificial seems all the so-called pastoral poetry ever written when one sits down to supper and
joins in the graceful Cielo or Pericon in one of these remote, semi-barbarous South American estancias! I swear I will turn poet
myself, and go back some day to astonish old blasé Europe with something so—so—What the deuce was that? My sleepy soliloquy
was suddenly brought to a most lame and impotent conclusion, for I had heard a sound of terror—the unmistakable zz-zzing of an
insect's wings. It was the hateful vinchuca. Here was an enemy against which British pluck and six-shooters are of no avail, and in
whose presence one begins to experience sensations which are not usually supposed to enter into the brave man's breast. Naturalists
tell us that it is the Connorhinus infectans, but, as that information leaves something to be desired, I will proceed in a few words to
describe the beast. It inhabits the entire Chilian, Argentine, and Oriental countries, and to all the dwellers in this vast territory it is
known as the vinchuca; for, like a few volcanoes, deadly vipers, cataracts, and other sublime natural objects, it has been permitted to
keep the ancient name bestowed on it by the aborigines. It is all over of a blackish-brown colour, as broad as a man's thumb-nail, and
flat as the blade of a table-knife—when fasting. By day it hides, bug-like, in holes and chinks, but no sooner are the candles put out,
than forth it comes to seek whom it may devour; for, like the pestilence, it walks in darkness. It can fly, and in a dark room knows
where you are and can find you....